Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (39 page)

Robert Goff shook his head and muttered something that sounded like “That's crazy,” but Hershel nodded thoughtfully at McLanahan. “I think it's an interesting idea,” she said. “I think it's worth a trip out to Turkmenistan to try to make contact with him.”

“If I know President Martindale, he'll be on his way out there to do the same thing,” Patrick observed. “He'll try to get Gurizev to crack down harder on the insurgents, but he'll also try to contact the insurgent leaders—first to bribe them into not blowing up the pipelines and then to feel them out as a possible replacement regime to Gurizev.”

“Interesting idea,” Thorn said acidly. “Did your buddy Kevin Martindale tell you that himself?” Patrick McLanahan's face turned grim. The activities of the former president of the United States were a very unpleasant topic between them all.

Three years earlier, following the successful development of the Tin Man battle-armor system by Sky Mas6/23/2003ters Inc., then-president Kevin Martindale sought to build the first Air Battle Force: small teams of high-tech commandos that could devastate the enemy with high-speed maneuverability and advanced weaponry, supported by stealth aircraft. It would be unnecessary to spend months mobilizing thousands of troops for overseas deployment when a force of a few dozen Tin Men could do the job just as well.

Kevin Martindale did not get reelected to the White House—but the Air Battle Force concept didn't die. Instead, as an ex-president, Martindale assembled the team code-named “the Night Stalkers”—former special-operations operators, led by Patrick's brother, Paul McLanahan, in the Tin Man battle-armor system. They acted as high-tech mercenary soldiers, pursuing the world's worst criminals and terrorists.

Their audacity and disregard for the rules of law made them many enemies, including President Thomas Thorn and his advisers, but the organization was highly successful. Eventually Patrick's and his friends' public support for the organization embarrassed the White House to the extent that they were all involuntarily retired from active duty. Patrick, David, Hal, and Chris soon joined the Night Stalkers, and Sky Masters Inc., the private defense contractor run by Jon Masters, supported them as well. The group soon became the “firemen” in the world-crisis scene—they carried out the nasty, unpleasant search-and-destroy missions that most other nations, including Thomas Thorn and the United States, refused or were unable to tackle. This proved to be doubly embarrassing for men like Lester Busick, Edward Kercheval, and Robert Goff, who were members of Thorn's administration but who openly advocated more U.S. involvement in world hot spots.

But it was soon obvious that the Night Stalkers weren't going to survive. In order to finance their global operation, the Night Stalkers often had to steal from their victims. Patrick McLanahan himself tortured, then threatened to kill one international terrorist, Pavel Kazakov, unless he was paid half a billion dollars. As pleased as the world community was to see killers like Kazakov in prison, the extortion tactics left a dark stain on the Night Stalkers' reputation.

The group later turned to mercenary work, being paid by wealthy corporations to spy on foreign governments and raid foreign military installations that threatened the company's interests. That turned out to be the last straw. Now every government was afraid of being hit by the Night Stalkers. The group wasn't fighting for justice or retribution anymore—they were fighting for money. The U.S. government cracked down on them, arresting several associates and closing down Sky Masters Inc. for a short time. Martindale disbanded the team shortly thereafter. McLanahan, Luger, Briggs, and Wohl were allowed to return to active military duty.

“He did not, sir—but I'm sure he would have,” Patrick said now in answer to the president's question.

“How the hell can you give that bastard any credit at all, General?” Thorn asked. “You lost your wife and your brother in Libya, thanks to that son of a bitch Martindale.” Maureen Hershel stared at Thorn, then McLanahan, in total shock. Obviously she hadn't heard the stories yet.

“Sir, I give President Martindale credit for the courage to act,” Patrick said. “We did what we thought was right. We had the power to do something, and we did it. We didn't wait around for some government to do it for us.”

“Fine. You made the deserts of Libya and Egypt safe for multinational oil companies to make tremendous profits off blood oil,” Thorn said. “Was it worth the lives of your family, General?”

“You said you're here for your own edification, Mr. President,” Patrick said. “If you won't get involved in Turkmenistan, why bother coming here and getting this briefing? Is it disrespectful, wrong, or even treasonous to plan and prepare for action even if your boss, the so-called leader of the free world, doesn't want to get involved?”

“You're talking about your commander in chief, General,” Robert Goff said pointedly. He couldn't get too angry with McLanahan—he mostly agreed with him, after all—but he couldn't let him get away with talking so freely either. “Let's get off this subject, shall we?”

Thorn gave Patrick a stern glare but let the matter drop.

“CIA just briefed the White House that they think Russia might be a player again in Turkmenistan,” Goff informed them. “Kurban Gurizev is staunchly pro-Russian, anti-West, and anti-Muslim. CIA feels that if the insurgents threaten the oil coming out of Turkmenistan, the Russian army could intervene—in fact, their intervention would be
welcomed
by Gurizev as a way to cement his hold on the government.”

“And if the Taliban insurgents continue to beat down the Turkmen army—what little remains of it—it would almost certainly draw Russia into the conflict,” Patrick said. He thought for a moment. “Russia has a couple fighter wings, weapon ranges, and a large air-combat-training facility at Mary in Turkmenistan. It's equivalent to the Navy's Strike and Air Warfare Center at Naval Air Station Fallon or the Air Force's Air Warfare Center at Nellis Air Force Base. Elements of Russia's Caspian Sea Flotilla are still based in Turkmenistan, including a marine infantry brigade and special-operations battalion, and Russian officers still serve in many Turkmen military units as contract workers.”

“But we're told the Russian military has completely departed Turkmenistan, and there is virtually no integration between the Turkmen and Russian armies,” Goff said. “What's the threat, Patrick?”

“It's a perceived threat, sir, not a real one,” Patrick replied. “Turkmenistan was an important Soviet republic, and it still is a major source of cheap oil that Russia relies on for its own use and for export. If Turkmenistan were lost to a bunch of Muslim extremist insurgents, with Russian officers in charge of the military and with Russian military forces still on the ground there, it would be a major embarrassment for Russia.”

Both Thorn and Goff fell silent, deep in thought.

“Interesting analysis, gentlemen,” President Thorn said at last. “Your observations seem to dovetail very well with CIA's.” He turned to Hershel and added, “A diplomatic mission to Turkmenistan might be in order right away.” He nodded to Luger, Briggs, and Wohl. “Thank you, gentlemen. I'd like to speak with General McLanahan for a few moments.” He shook hands with each one of them, even Chris Wohl's armored hand, as they departed.

Thorn, Hershel, and Goff conferred with one another apart from the military personnel; Patrick walked the others to the door so he could stay respectfully out of earshot. “What do you think's going on, Muck?” Dave Luger asked.

“I think we watered their eyes,” Patrick replied, “and we're going to be very busy in the next several weeks. I want a staff meeting set up for thirteen hundred hours. Let's talk about what we have and what we don't have.”

“You got it.”

“General McLanahan,” Secretary Goff called out. Patrick, Rebecca, and then John Long joined Thorn, Hershel, and Goff. “We thank you very much for the tour, General,” he said. “We're on our way.”

“Yes, sir. I'll see to it that your aircraft is brought up to the surface and made ready right away.”

“General Furness,” President Thorn asked, “what is your opinion of General McLanahan's program here?”

“My opinion, sir?”

“What do you
think,
General?” Thorn asked pointedly. “Do you think he has something there, or do you think he was too far out in left field to come up with anything practical?”

Rebecca looked uncomfortable for a moment, then replied, “Sir, General McLanahan has always been an unconventional thinker. Ever since he first set foot on my base in Reno, he baffles, irritates, and frustrates me with the ideas he comes up with and the gadgets he devises to get the job done. I call it unconventional; some might call it innovative. I don't know how he does it, but he gets the job done.”

“Damning with faint praise?” Goff remarked. “I'm not following you, General. Is this whole idea something that needs to be explored further, or do you just want to get your base and wing and planes back and put together your unit the way you see fit?”

“Sir, I don't quite know what to make of this unmanned-attack-plane idea,” she replied. “I've been training and leading aircrews into battle for twelve years. In my estimation a human being behind the controls will always be better than a machine. Had we not been at the controls of that EB-1, I feel fairly certain—not positive, but fairly certain—that we could have lost a two-hundred-million-dollar plane.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “And yes, I'll admit, I was very aware of the fact that it was
my
plane, one of only a few that belonged to
my
wing. This is my first wing-level command, something I've always wanted, and, frankly, I don't relish sharing the spotlight with Patrick McLanahan. General McLanahan has an annoying habit of smelling like he came out of a French whorehouse even after emerging out of absolute train wrecks. Pardon me, sir, but what I meant to say is—”

“We know what you mean, General. We've been there,” Thorn said with a faint smile.

“At one point in our nation's history, sir, they said a woman didn't have what was needed to take a warplane into combat,” Rebecca went on. “They said women were too nurturing, not strong enough, not aggressive enough, too overcome by emotions and feelings and too ingrained as the ones who give birth and build nests to make effective destroyers. I'm happy to say we proved them wrong.”

“So what
are
you saying, General?”

“I'm saying that General McLanahan's project needs more study and more experimentation,” she replied. “One test flight is not enough to prove his theories either way. And . . . and it only makes sense to use my wing's aircraft, facilities, and budget to continue the experiments. General McLanahan and General Luger have been working with my wing's aircraft for years. We're still in the process of developing an EB-1C Vampire training program for instructors. We're at least six months from finalizing a curriculum and training students. Our aircraft and facilities are underutilized.”

“So what are you recommending?” Goff asked.

“I'm recommending that my unit's budget be recast and our mission redefined to make General McLanahan's Air Battle Force concept operational as soon as possible,” Rebecca said. “If it works, we may never need to send an American into harm's way again. The fliers I know consider it their
duty
to fly into harm's way, and as long as they know and understand the mission and the objective, they'll do it time after time. But that's my old-school opinion. If the future of air combat means remotely piloted planes and satellite-guided, unmanned, bomb-carrying drones, then I'd be proud to have my wing lead the way.”

Robert Goff nodded in agreement—but Thomas Thorn looked at first confused, then angry.

“Listen, I'm sure I'm not getting the whole story here,” he said, “but I've seen what I came here to see. I'm still going to do an investigation on whether or not you misappropriated any funds, General McLanahan, or whether your use of private experimental aircraft puts the government at risk.” He looked at all three of them, then added, “I do like the analysis you did regarding Central Asia, and I think you might have some weapon systems here that can be of use if this incident starts to get serious. Secretary Goff, you handle this affair as you see fit.”

“Very good, sir.”

Thorn nodded, then looked the three military officers in the eye. “Maybe you kids aren't as dishonest, backstabbing, treacherous, and confused as I was led to believe.” And then he paused, looked right at John Long, and stared at him long enough for everyone to fully understand exactly who it was that had led him to believe those things. Long squirmed, but there was nowhere to hide.

“I don't know what to make of all this, but I can tell you one thing: I don't like sidewinders. I like my fights out in the open. That'll be all, Colonel.” Long saluted; Thorn did not return the salute. “Right now I pretty much feel like a damned gopher. Someone show me the fastest way to some sunshine.” David Luger and the head of the Presidential Protection Detail motioned toward the waiting electric cars. “Robert, Maureen, a word with you, please.”

Rebecca Furness went over to Patrick when Goff, Hershel, and the president stepped away to confer among themselves. “You know, I can't figure you out sometimes, McLanahan,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn't you tell them what you think, Patrick?” she asked. “I know you don't think the plane was in danger. I know for
damned
sure you don't think there was a boom strike. In fact, none of the maintenance guys, at Diego Garcia or here, found any evidence of a boom strike.”

“It doesn't matter what I'd tell them.”